


A Broken Glass

by motherofschnauzers



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Morse is drunk, Morse is sad, The Thursday's take care of Morse and then things go wrong and then they take care of him again, Whump, a little bit of torture, mostly off screen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2020-11-27 17:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20952401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motherofschnauzers/pseuds/motherofschnauzers
Summary: The Thursdays help a drunk and injured Morse. Then things go wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first time posting a fic! Hope you enjoy!

“Penny for them?” Win said. It was late Friday evening and the Thursday’s were driving home from celebrating Win’s birthday. Fred had checked out the Jag for the evening - one of the perks of being a DI - and they had gone to a nice restaurant. It had been a wonderful distraction for Fred, coming off the heels of a particularly grim case. 

Five dead in less than two weeks. Almost all of the CID had run themselves ragged trying to stop Nelson Whitmore, a former don who had decided that his retirement was the perfect time to become a murderer. He had delighted in mutilating his victims and writing cryptic clues on the walls in their blood. And, as usual, Morse was the only one who could make close to any sense of the killer’s clues and even he was pushed to his limits trying to solve them in time to save the next victim. The problem had been that the clues had pointed to where the next body would be found, not to who the next victim was, but Morse had finally seen the clues in the locations themselves in time to stop Whitmore before he claimed a sixth life. 

The answer to Win’s question would be to tell her all of this. But that would never happen. Work stayed on the hall stand, even if the hall stand wasn’t in the Jag with them. And if Fred was honest with himself, Whitmore and his crimes weren’t really what was weighing on his mind. No, that was Morse. The boy had worked himself into the ground over the past couple weeks with the weight of the case resting on his shoulders. Fred had spent a lot of the time feeling useless, wishing he could carrying some of the lad. He had seen the same desire in Strange, Jakes, and even many of the other officers who usually had little time or pity for the ever prickly Morse. The had all wished they could do something more to help him, but Morse alone could find the answer in the deranged clues left by Whitmore.

They had caught up with Whitmore that day, in time to save his latest victim from a gruesome fate. While everyone else had breathed a sigh of relief, Morse had still been on edge, seemingly unable to move past the horrors he had seen. He had stood, staring into the room where Whitemore had tortured and murdered his victims looking lost. Finally, Fred had taken the boy by the shoulders and guided him out the house for Strange to drive him home. 

“Fred?” Win’s voice broke him out of his reverie. He scolded himself for getting trapped so deep in thought while driving, then smiled at Win.

“Sorry, love, just tired,” he said. And it wasn’t a complete lie. He was tired, exhausted even.

“Not surprising after the last couple weeks you’ve had,” she said. “You and Morse looked dead on your feet when he picked you up yesterday morning. Did you get any sleep last night?”

With the case almost solved, Fred had spent the night at the station with Morse. He hadn’t seen Win and the kids until he had driven home that afternoon. 

“I had a kip in my office,” he said. He pulled to a stop at a red light and realized with a jolt that they were about to cross Morse’s street. When he leaned further over the steering wheel he could just about see the top of the stairs leading to his bagman’s basement flat.

“What is it, Dad?” Sam asked from the back.

“Morse lives over there,” Fred said, sitting back in his seat. At this time of the evening the intersection was quiet. This red light had always been a long one. Part of him really wanted to turn left and check on the boy. 

“Really?” Joan said, leaning forward from the back seat. “Where?”

“Just over there,” Fred said, vaguely, still staring in the direction of Morse’s flat. He suddenly became aware that Win was watching him. He turned to look at her.

“Do you want to go check on him?” she asked, far to perceptively. 

Fred tried to hide his desire by scoffing. “He’s a grown man, love. I doubt he wants his boss checking up on him at this time in the evening.”

“Everyone needs someone to check on them every now and then,” Win said, gently. 

The light turned green, but Fred made no move to drive on, thankful for the quiet streets.

“Come on, Dad,” said Joan. “Let’s visit your bagman.” At first Fred thought his daughter was teasing him, but her voice was too gentle to be teasing. With a sigh, he threw on the indicator and turned left. He pulled up in front of Morse’s building and killed then engine. There was a pause. No one spoke or moved to get out.

“I think only I should go,” Fred said finally, turning to look at his wife and children. “Morse is… well he likes his privacy. Best it’s just me, really.”

“You’re worried about him, aren’t you,” Joan said. It was a statement, not a question.

Fred gave a noncommittal shrug. “These past two weeks were tough and Morse bore the brunt of it. We wouldn’t have solved it if not for him. And that’s as much as I’m saying about it,” he said giving both Sam and Joan a firm look. Win knew better than to push him for information, but the children still liked to push their luck every now and then. “Alright?” Sam and Joan nodded. “Right, back in a minute.”

Fred gave Win’s hand a squeeze then exited the car. The night air was brisk and Fred quickly descended the stairs to Morse’s flat. The lights were on and he could hear opera playing somewhat loudly. For a moment he pitied Morse’s neighbors, then shoved the ungenerous thought from his mind. With all Morse did for this city, he deserved to play his music as loudly as he wanted, even if it sounded like caterwauling to most people. His first knocks received no reply so he banged louder until the opera cut out. The door was suddenly pulled open and he was finally able to get a look at his bagman.

The boy was a mess. His shirt was untucked and as wrinkled as Fred had ever seen it. He was leaning against the doorframe as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. There were dark shadows under his eyes and he reeked of whisky. Fred sighed. This is what he had been afraid of.

“Evening, Morse.”

“What d’you want?” Morse said, the words slurring together.

“I came to see how you’re doing,” Fred said. “Mind if I come in?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer and instead just pushed his way in past Morse. The lad was in no condition to stop him. Fred took in the tip that was Morse’s flat. There were books and records scattered everywhere as if Morse had not been able to concentrate on one thing for very long and had just gone from one thing to the next in an attempt to calm his mind. There was an almost empty bottle of whisky on the small table by the armchair, but no glass to be seen. Had Morse been drinking straight from the bottle then? Thursday noticed the shattered glass on the floor, along with a decent amount of blood. Fred’s eyes followed the dripping blood trail back to Morse by the still open front door. It was then that he noticed the lad’s hand was bleeding rather badly.

“Christ, Morse,” Fred said.

“What?” Morse said, looking down at where Thursday was staring. At the sight of blood his face went even paler than it already was and Fred jumped forward to steady him. Fred closed the front door, then pulled Morse to the other chair in the room away from the broken glass. Morse slumped into the chair and reached across with his good hand for the whisky.

“Oh no you don’t,” Thursday said. He got to the whisky before Morse could, which was a good thing as reaching so far put Morse off balance and he almost toppled out of his chair. Thursday grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back. Far from looking embarrassed, Morse just glared at him. He seemed to have forgotten about his bleeding hand.

“That’s my whiskey,” he said. 

“Yes, and you’ve had enough,” Fred said. He turned away and went to the tiny kitchenette. He was in half a mind to pour the rest of the whiskey down the drain, but instead he just set it down and grabbed a clean looking tea towel. Fred went back to Morse and grabbed his wrist so he could assess the damage. It wasn’t good. There was a deep gash going across Morse’s palm with several pieces of glass still embedded in it. Blood was steadily leaking from it. 

With his hand suddenly brought back to his attention, Morse turned an alarming shade of green. Thursday was just in time as he grabbed the bin and shoved it into Morse’s lap. He rubbed the boy’s back with one hand while he retched, the other keeping Morse’s injured hand elevated.

“Alright?” Fred asked when Morse was finished. Morse grimaced and Fred took the bin away. Thankfully, Morse wasn’t so drunk that he tried to look at his hand again. Instead he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Thursday took the opportunity to continue examining his hand. Fred sighed. There was no way around it. The boy was going to need stitches. Which meant a ride to casualty. Which meant bringing a very drunk Morse into the car with his family. A very drunk Morse who, if he was anything like sober Morse, would very much not want to get in the car with his family let alone go to casualty. But there was no way around it. Morse needed stitches.

“How’d you do this then?” Thursday asked. He gently wrapped the tea towel around Morse’s hand, trying not to disturb the glass still in the wound.

Morse shrugged. “Glass broke,” he said. 

“And how’d that happen?”

“Just did.”

Thursday rolled his eyes. That was evidently as much of an explanation as he was going to get out of Morse. 

“Right then, up you get,” Thursday said. He had decided that the best course of action was to take no nonsense and just push Morse through it. He pulled Morse to his feet.

“Why?” Morse complained, trying to pull his wrist free from Thursday.

“Because that hand needs seeing to. Come on.” Fred wrapped his free arm around Morse’s waist and pulled the arm with the injured hand over his shoulders keeping a vice like grip on the wrist. For once he was glad Morse was so skinny. It made the young man easier to maneuver through the flat. Morse protested the whole way. Thursday stopped only to grab Morse’s coat and check it for the boys keys and wallet. He pulled Morse out of the flat, locked the door, and dragged him up the stairs. Perhaps this was going to be easier than he had feared. Drunk Morse was surprisingly easy to manhandle if one ignored his increasingly grumpy protests. He struggled against Fred a bit, but was no match for Thursday’s greater size and strength.

Win got out of the passenger seat as she saw the two men emerge at the top of the staircase.

“Fred?” she called. “Everything alright?”

At the sound of her voice, Morse stopped struggling and stared at her. By this point Sam and Joan had also gotten out of the car.

“Is he drunk?” Joan asked, looking somewhere between shocked and amused. Fred remembered then that his family usually only saw Morse as a shy and polite constable who awkwardly inhabited their front hall or dining room most mornings. Or, as Joan would put it, square. They knew little of his bagman’s demons and vices.

“Yes,” Thursday said. “And he’s hurt his hand. Needs to go to casualty.”

“No, I don’t,” Morse said, suddenly finding his voice again. The words were forceful, but the effect would have been better if they hadn’t slurred together. 

“That enough out of you,” Fred said. “Come on, Sam, help me get him in the front.” Sam went to open the passenger door.

Morse struggled again as Thursday moved around the car. Then, Win stepped forward and put her hand on his face. He stopped struggling.

“Come on now, young man,” she said, sternly. “There’s no need for that. Come on, in you get.” Morse looked at her, utterly nonplussed and Fred took the opportunity to stuff him into the car with Sam’s help. The Thursday’s piled back into the car, Fred driving and Win, Sam, and Joan stuffed into the back seat. As Fred pulled away from the curb, he noticed Win had taken the middle seat. She leaned forward and grabbed Morse’s injured hand by the wrist so she could inspect it. The boy was already bleeding through the towel. Morse tried to pull his hand back, but stopped when Win gave him a stern look.

“Give us a warning if you’re going to be sick,” Thursday said, glancing at his bagman. Morse glared at him then turned to stare at the window. Win still had his hand. She gently lifted the tea towel away from the wound and Fred heard sounds of sympathy from bother her and Joan.

Thankfully, the hospital wasn’t far and Thursday was parked up within twenty minutes of leaving Morse’s flat. Morse grumbled a bit as Fred pulled him out of the car, but didn’t put up much of a fight. Sam appeared beside them and pulled Morse’s other arm over his shoulder so that the lad was almost suspended between the two taller Thursday men. In any other situation, Fred would have found this amusing, but he was too tired and worried to now. 

Fortunately for Morse, it was a quiet night at casualty and he was brought back to a bed immediately. Fred and Win accompanied him there while Sam and Joan went to sit in the waiting area. Thursday spoke to the intake nurse while Win kept Morse in the bed. The boy very much did not want to be there and it looked to Fred like it was only Win’s motherly sternness that kept him from making a run for it (although, Fred doubted he would get very far if he did). She still had a strong grip on the wrist of his injured hand, making sure he didn’t injure it further with his uncoordinated movements. 

After Fred had explained to the nurse that Morse was very drunk in addition to being injured, he had to help keep Morse calm while the nurse approached him with an IV. They were going to give him IV fluids to try and, if not sober him up, at least treat his alcohol induced dehydration. But drunk Morse was just as squeamish as sober Morse if not more so.

“I’m fine! I don’t need any of that. I don’t need that needle,” said Morse. He was starting to look somewhat frantic as he shrank back into the bed. 

“It’s alright, dear,” Win said, switching from stern to soothing. She handed Morse’s wrist to Fred and pulled the boy into a hug. She held his head against her shoulder so he couldn’t see the nurse approaching anymore. Morse jerked his uninjured hand back when the nurse touched it and Fred grabbed his other wrist to hold it still for the nurse. Win continued to hold Morse, stroking his hair, as he quietly whimpered through having the IV set up. She held him a bit longer after the nurse was done and Thursday released his wrist. She shushed and gently rocked him back and forth. Finally, it was Morse who pulled away.

“Sorry,” he said, staring down at his lap. “I’m sorry for all of this.” He looked ready to cry.

Oh no, Thursday thought. Morse was going from agitated to emotional drunk. Part of him dearly hoped that the boy was too pissed to remember any of this in the morning. He didn’t think Morse’s pride would be able to stand it.

“Shh,” Win said, stroking his face. “Don’t you worry about it. Nothing to be sorry for.” 

Thursday had to stop himself from scoffing at that. He intended to have quite the discussion with Morse the following day.

Win gently pushed Morse back against the pillows. “Why don’t you close your eyes while we wait for the doctor. That’ll help you feel better.”

For once, Morse did as he was told without complaint and allowed Win to settle him into the hospital bed. She stroked his hair and he leaned into the touch like a cat. Soon, his breathing began to even out and he was lightly dozing, on the edge of sleep. The doctor appeared not long after and gently inspected the wound while Morse snoozed. 

“Yes, that definitely needs stitches,” he said quietly to Fred and Win. “We’ll give him some local anesthetic, then remove the glass, clean it, and stitch it up.” It all sounded very simple when the doctor said it, but Thursday knew it would be another thing to get Morse to cooperate. A nurse gently woke Morse up so the doctor could tell him what was going to happen. The boy shrank further back into the bed and pulled his injured hand to his chest getting blood on his shirt in the process.

“No, I don’t need stitches. I don’t need them.” His words were still slurring together. Morse looked from the doctor to Fred to Win with pleading eyes. “I don’t need them,” he repeated. “It’s fine! I’m fine!” His voice cracked slightly with panic as he saw no help coming his way. 

“Enough of that now, lad,” Thursday said. “Just let the doctor do his job and then we can go home.”

Treating the gash in Morse’s hand went very much the same way as setting up the IV had. Win held Morse while he whimpered. Fred helped a nurse keep the lad’s injured hand still while the doctor worked. Fred knew that Morse wasn’t in much physical pain from the cleaning. The doctor had given him a good amount of local anesthetic. It was more the idea of what was happening than anything else that was upsetting Morse.

The doctor was diligent and meticulous. He took his time cleaning the wound, making sure to remove every single piece of glass that was still embedded in Morse’s palm. By the time the doctor got to actually stitching the wound, Morse had quieted down. Win turned to Fred and mouthed “he’s asleep.” Fred took a closer look at his bagman and saw that Morse had indeed dozed off again. Thursday rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. Soon the doctor was securing a thick bandage around Morse’s hand and Fred helped Win lay Morse back against the pillows. The boy stirred long enough to look at his bandaged hand, but soon he was fully asleep again.

The nurse gave Fred and Win the discharge instructions for caring for Morse’s hand. She then managed to remove the IV without waking Morse. Thursday wasn’t sure if he should laugh or sigh with exasperation. The doctor signed the discharge papers and Win went to get Sam to help Fred get Morse back to the car. Fred gently shook the lad’s shoulder.

“Morse,” he said. “You need to wake up. It’s time to go home.”

The boy’s only response was to groan and press his face deeper into the pillow. Thursday sighed.

“Wake up, lad,” he said, still shaking Morse’s shoulder. “Morse. Morse! Endeavour!”

That earned Thursday a sleepy glare. He took the opportunity to pull Morse into a sitting position. Sam arrived and helped Fred get Morse to stand. The lad was very unsteady on his feet but, between the two of them, they got him into the car. By the time Thursday sank into the driver’s seat, Morse was asleep again with his head resting against the window. Thursday just shook his head and started the engine.

“We’re taking him back to ours, then, right?”Joan said from the back seat.

It was Win who answered. “Yes, we are. We’ll put him in the spare bedroom.”

Thursday drove home. When they arrived, Win hopped out first to open the door and prepare the spare bed. Joan followed to help her while Sam and Fred maneuvered a barely conscious Morse out of the car, into the house, and up the stairs. They deposited Morse in the freshly made spare bed. Sam went downstairs when Joan called up that Mum was making tea. Thursday stayed behind and watched his bagman sleep.

He had seen all this coming really. Well, maybe not all of it. Not the injury or the trip to casualty or Morse here drunkenly passed out in his spare bedroom. No, not that. But he had expected the drunkenness, Morse’s attempt to quiet the loud world around him in one of the worst ways possible. He sighed and pulled Morse’s shoes and socks off. He then gently removed Morse’s shirt and vest both of which were stained with blood from his hand. The stain had soaked through to the pale skin of Morse’s chest and Thursday went to the bathroom to wet a flannel. He came back to wash the stain away. The boy stirred, but didn’t open his eyes. 

Part of Fred wondered if this was all too intimate to be doing with his bagman, but he shook the thought away. Like it or not, the boy was like a son to him and he would always do his best to care for him. He considered Morse’s trousers for a moment before scoffing and pulling them off. They reeked of whiskey just like the rest of Morse’s clothes and Thursday had little doubt that he had spilled some on them. He tucked the blankets around the boy, turned off the lamp, and retreated from the room leaving the door cracked ajar. 

Fred went downstairs to join the rest of his family. They were gathered in the sitting room, sipping on tea. Win handed him a cup as he sat down.

“How is he?” she asked.

“Dead to the world,” Fred said. “He’ll be out of it for a while now. It’ll take some time to sleep off that much booze. And he’ll have one hell of a hangover when he wakes up tomorrow.”

“Will he be alright?” Joan asked. “I mean, does he… does he-”

“Does he usually drink like this?” Sam finished her question.

Thursday sighed. “Every man has his vices. And as I said before, the last two weeks have been trying to say the least. Especially for Morse.” He looked at his children. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know if he’ll be alright. I’ve seen him act like this before and I haven’t been able to stop him yet.” Fred hadn’t meant to say quite that much. His exhaustion was catching up with him and he needed to vent his frustration about Morse’s situation to someone. He felt Win grasp his hand.

“Now now, Fred Thursday,” she said. “None of that. Of course Morse will be alright. We’ll make sure of it, all of us.”

Fred smiled at his wife and then at his children who were nodding in agreement with their mother and wondered how he got so lucky. On his own he hadn’t been able to pull Morse from the path of drink, but maybe with his family’s help they would succeed in saving Morse from himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you requested a second part and as I was writing it, it morphed into something more. So enjoy this chapter! There's more to come!

Before he left for work the next morning, Thursday poked his head into the spare room to check on Morse. The boy was sprawled out on his stomach, face buried in the pillow, snoring, and oblivious to the world. Fred shook his head and snuck further into the room. He pulled out the note he had written over breakfast, put it on the bedside table, then placed the tall glass of water he was carrying on the corner of it. Satisfied that Morse would find both when he woke, Thursday crept out of the room and carefully closed the door behind him. The lad didn’t stir once.

Downstairs, Fred said goodbye to Sam and Joan as they went to catch their bus. Win came out of the kitchen carrying his sandwich while he put on his hat and coat. He put his sandwich in his pocket, kissed her goodbye, and went out to the jag. They had already discussed that Morse would be off from work today and that they would do their best to keep him at the Thursday house for as long as they could. Thursday, frankly, didn’t trust Morse on his own at that moment, not after everything he had witnessed the night before. He wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved that the boy hadn’t woken before he left for work. On the one hand he rather wanted to have a conversation with Morse and do all he could to make him stay with them. On the other, he wanted a bit more time to figure out how best to approach the boy.

With a sigh, Fred shifted the jag into gear and drove off to the station. Nelson Whitmore was rotting in lockup and there was a mountain of work waiting for him. It would have been easier with Morse there to help him, but the lad needed some space from the case.

* * *

Morse’s head was pounding. It felt like his brain had grown fists and was pummeling the inside of his skull. He buried his face deeper into the pillow, trying to get away from the light that was filtering in through his eyelids. His whole body ached, especially his right hand for some reason. He tried to flex his fingers, but discovered that his hand felt as if it was tightly wrapped in several layers of cloth. Squinting against the offending light, Morse examined his hand and found it wrapped in bandages. That was odd. He racked his brain for any memory of what had happened, but it was slow and sluggish and aching. He knew he’d had a lot to drink. But his hand was a mystery.

It was then that he noticed he was not in his flat. In fact, he didn’t at all recognize the small room he found himself in with its small bed, squashed in furniture, and infuriating curtained window that was letting in far too much light. Finally, he spotted a glass of water and a note on the bedside table. He was relieved to find the water. His mouth tasted awful, his tongue felt like sandpaper, and he was incredibly thirsty. He sat up and gulped the water. Then he read the note. It was from Thursday.

_ Morse, _

_ I’m not sure how much you remember from last night because you were very drunk. The rundown is that when we came to visit you last night, you had injured your hand. We took you to get stitches and then took you back to ours.  _

_ You are NOT to come into work today. You WILL LISTEN to everything Mrs. Thursday tells you to do. If I see you at the station, you’ll be on desk duty til kingdom come. BEHAVE. We’ll talk when I get home. _

_ \- Thursday _

Morse sat back with a groan, burying his face in his hands. This was bad. Worse than bad. This was awful, horrifying, and unimaginably mortifying. To add to the horror, he suddenly realized he wearing nothing but his underpants. Had Thursday undressed him? Unbidden, hazy and disjointed memories began to filter back to him. Memories that at that moment he would rather remain forgotten forever.

* * *

Morse downed another glass of scotch and immediately poured another one. He had lost count of how many he’d had sometime around the fifth glass. The past two weeks had been filled with horror after horror, mutilated body after mutilated body. If Morse had been faster, if he’d been smarter, if he hadn’t been so damn blind to the obvious, he would have seen the pattern faster. The killer had been playing with them, that much was obvious. Leaving clues to where they would find the next body, so cryptic that it took a day or more to riddle them out. And by that time the body was waiting for them. 

Morse had been able to figure those clues out. It was the ones he missed, the ones staring him right in the face that were the real clues. The locations that hinted at the next victim, all people that Nelson Whitmore had felt insulted by at some point in his long career as an Oxford don. He’d been too damn slow at figuring out that part of the killer’s plan. And people had died because of it.

He downed the glass of scotch in his hand. He reached for the bottle and poured another. Whitmore had taken all his victims to murder them. He had tortured them for days before finally letting them bleed out, collecting the blood to write his taunting messages on the walls of where he dumped their corpses. It was a long, drawn out, and agonizing death. The knowledge of what was done to these people had haunted Morse every step of the investigation. And then he had solved it and they had found the room. The room where Whitmore had done it all. 

He vaguely remembered Thursday leading him away from it, telling him to go home and rest. Strange had driven him home, casting him concerned looks the entire time. He had offered to stay, to keep Morse company, but Morse had waved him off, wanting nothing but to be alone. He had tried reading. He had tried listening to music. Nothing worked. Finally, he went for the scotch. He sat in his armchair, stewing in booze and misery. Memory after memory came back to him until finally, he slammed his glass down on the table with more force that he intended. He felt it shatter in his hand. He was vaguely aware of pain lancing through it, but the alcohol dulled it.

There was a knock on the door. He stared at it until another, louder knock came from the other side. Grumbling, he staggered over to the door and pulled it open, determined to give whoever was disturbing him a piece of his mind. It was Thursday.

* * *

The memory faded after that. He guessed that at some point Thursday had noticed his hand and the broken glass and dragged him to casualty. He could only remember Thursday coming to his door, but as he looked back at the letter and confirmed it said “we” and not “I”, the pit of dread in his stomach deepened. Had Mrs. Thursday been witness to any of this? Had Miss Thursday? Had Sam? Had all of them seen him drunk, miserable, and injured? The pounding in his head increased in tempo with his racing heart. 

Morse cast his gaze about the room looking for his clothes. He had to leave now and damn what Thursday thought. The letter clearly implied that he expected Morse to remain at his house until he got home. There was no way in hell that was going to happen. But his clothes were nowhere to be seen. How was he meant to escape if he had no clothes? There was a sharp knock on the door.

“Morse, dear,” Mrs. Thursday’s voice came through the door. “I’m coming in alright?”

Morse quickly pulled the bedsheets further up himself as the door opened slowly. Mrs. Thursday smiled at him when she saw he was awake. She was carrying a tray piled with food.

“Sorry if I woke you, dear,” she said, setting the tray down on the bedside table. “Just thought it was time we got some food in you. It’s well past noon.” 

Morse could feel the blush creeping across his face. Things were just getting worse and worse. His boss and family had found him drunk and injured last night, he had spent the night in their spare room in a drunken stupor, and now he was currently half naked in bed as his boss’s wife served him breakfast in the afternoon. He shrank down into the covers as much as he could as Mrs. Thursday crossed the room to the curtained window. His hungover brain was too slow to realize what she was about to do. She pulled the curtains open and daylight flooded the room. He quickly covered his eyes, burying his face deep into the sheets, as pain lanced through his head. He was too hungover for all of this. He flinched when he felt a hand run through his hair and another hazy memory came back to him.

* * *

Morse hated hospitals. Ever since he was a boy they had held nothing but pain and death for him and so for most of his life he had avoided them like the plague that they were. But now DI Thursday was depositing onto a bed in casualty and pushing him back down when he tried to stand up.

“I don’t need to be here,” he said. Thursday didn’t respond and Morse tried to stand up again. This time it was Mrs. Thursday who forced him back into the bed.

“Now, dear,” she said, grabbing his wrist. He winced a bit as her hand brushed the towel wrapped around his hand. “Settle down now,” she was saying. Her other hand was on his shoulder, gently pushing him back against the pillows.

“I don’t need to be here,” he repeated, hoping she would listen if DI Thursday wouldn’t. In the corner of his vision he could see Thursday talking to a nurse and he turned to glare at them. 

“Yes, you do, Morse, love.” Mrs. Thursday’s voice brought his attention back to her. He tried to tug his wrist out of her tight grip but she was surprisingly strong. “You’ve hurt your hand rather badly, remember? We need to let the doctor see it.”

He threw a dirty look at the blood soaked towel around his hand, but shook his head stubbornly. “No. It’s fine. Don’t need a doctor.” He tried to pull his hand away from her again and suddenly found himself trapped under her stern gaze. 

“Endeavour Morse,” she said. He was too surprised by her knowing his first name to react to her using it. He stopped trying to tug his wrist away. Then movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he turned to see the nurse approaching him with a needle. He shrank back into the bed.

“I’m fine! I don’t need any of that. I don’t need that needle,” he said. Why wouldn’t anyone believe him? 

Suddenly, Mrs. Thursday blocked the nurse and needle from view as she pulled him into her embrace. Gently, but firmly, she held his head against her shoulder so he couldn’t turn to see the nurse again. He felt someone touch his uninjured hand and pulled it back, unable to control the whimper that broke free of him. Someone grabbed the wrist and held it still. But then Mrs. Thursday was talking.

“Shhh, you’re alright, dear. You’re alright. I’ve got you. You’re safe. Hush now.” Her voice was low and even and he closed his eyes against her shoulder. 

There was a pinch on the back of his hand and he whimpered again, but Mrs. Thursday kept up her soothing stream of words. His wrist was released and though his hand still stung a bit he noticed it less and less as Mrs. Thursday began to gently rock him. No one had held him like this since his mother. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed it and almost sank deeper into her embrace. But then shame rose from his stomach as he remembered that this was his boss’s wife, not his mother, who was holding him like a scared child. His boss’s wife who had no seen him act a coward over a needle. His boss’s wife who had discovered what a drunken waste of space he was. Morse pulled himself out of her embrace, unable to look her in the eye.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for all of this.” He fought back tears, refusing to also cry in front of his boss and his boss’s wife.

Then there was a gentle hand on his face and Mrs. Thursday’s voice shushing him. Again the soothing words washed over him.

“Don’t you worry about it. Nothing to be sorry for. Why don’t you close your eyes while we wait for the doctor. That’ll help you feel better.” 

This time Morse let her push him back against the pillows. He closed his eyes as he let her settle him into the bed like a child. Then her hand was running through his hair and it was such a wonderful feeling. He could feel sleep tugging on him. But suddenly there was a doctor in his face, telling him the horrible things he wanted to do to his perfectly fine hand and Morse desperately wanted to get away, but no one was listening to him. 

Then, he was back in Mrs. Thursday’s arms and she held him as he began to cry into her shoulder. She stroked his hair again whispering comforts into his ear. He felt himself begin to relax into her warm embrace as he remembered how his mother had done the same when he was young. Maybe it would be alright, just this once, to just lean in to the arms wrapped around him and pretend he had a mother again.

* * *

Mrs. Thursday’s voice brought him back from the memory.

“I know, I’m sorry, dear,” she was saying, still stroking his hair. “You must have a terrible headache after the night you had. There’s some aspirin on the tray.”

Morse slowly lifted his head to look at her, although he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes. He had to squint against the light. Mrs. Thursday stopped stroking his hair and instead stoked his cheek.

“Are you alright, dear?” she asked.

He gave her a weak smile. “Yes, I’m fine,” he said, hating how gravely his voice sounded. “Thank you, Mrs. Thursday.” He wasn’t telling her the truth, but it didn’t matter. The sooner she thought he was fine, the sooner he might get his clothes back and be able to escape this embarrassing mess. Mrs. Thursday straightened up and removed her hand from his cheek.

“Alright,” she said. “Now you tuck into this and I’ll go run you a bath.”

“Mrs. Thursday -,” he began, horror rising in him. But before he could protest further she cut him off.

“Don’t argue with me, young man,” she said, suddenly stern. He remembered her sternness from last night and it was even more frightening when he was sober. He shrank even further back into the bed. “You reek of whiskey and hospital. When you are done eating, you will have a bath. Do I make myself clear?”

He nodded, unable to speak. Mrs. Thursday’s face softened and she stroked his hair again. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “We’re just trying to help. Can you see that?” 

He nodded again, although he couldn’t fathom why the Thursday’s wanted to help him of all people. Mrs. Thursday smiled at him, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She placed the tray of food in his lap. “

“Eat up,” she said. “I’ll let you know when the bath is ready.” And with that she left the room. 

Morse stared down at the tray in front of him. It held a plate with a couple pieces of toast, two fried eggs, and some bacon. And as Mrs. Thursday had promised, there was a bottle of aspirin next to a still steaming cup of tea. Not wanting to upset Mrs. Thursday again, Morse did as he was told and ate his breakfast. He wondered if he could really call it breakfast if it was after noon. Eating was a little difficult with his right hand wrapped in bandages and too much pressure was applied to his palm it hurt like hell. As he ate, he could hear Mrs. Thursday bustling in and out of the bathroom accompanied by the sound of running water. By the time she came back into his room carrying a large dressing gown, he had almost cleaned his plate and was just finishing his cup of tea after swallowing some aspirin. She beamed at him as she saw how much he had eaten.

“It was wonderful, thank you, Mrs Thursday,” he said. His voice was still hoarse and he suspected it would be for the rest of the day. 

“Oh, it was no trouble, dear,” she said. She laid the dressing gown over the edge of the bed and took the tray from him. “Now, the bath is ready. There’s towels and clean clothes waiting for you. And make sure you keep that hand dry. The doctor said you’re not to get your stitches wet.”

He nodded and thanked her again and then she left him alone. He stood, swaying slightly. Despite a large meal, his head was still pounding. In fact, he was starting to regret eating so much as he began to feel a little nauseous. But he hadn’t wanted to disappoint Mrs. Thursday any further. With that sentiment, he shrugged on the massive dressing gown, guessing that it must be one of DI Thursday’s. He slowly walked to the bathroom, keeping his good hand on the wall to steady himself.

The bath was wonderfully warm and he allowed himself a moment to relax in the water. But Mrs. Thursday was right, he really did reek of alcohol. So he grabbed the fresh bar of soap she had left him and began to wash himself. It wasn’t easy doing it one handed. Despite his best efforts he still managed to get his bandages damp, especially when it came time to wash his hair. 

Morse wrapped himself in a large fluffy towel and examined the clothes Mrs. Thursday had left for him. There were clean underwear and socks, well pressed trousers and a shirt, and a soft red sweater. None of them were his and they were too small to be Thursday’s. He thought that maybe they were Sam’s but as he pulled on the trousers he realized they couldn’t be. The youngest Thursday was a few inches taller than him and the trousers were the perfect length for Morse. That left only one possibility. While Morse had been passed out drunk in the Thursday’s spare bedroom, Mrs. Thursday and gone out and bought him new clothes. He covered his face with his good hand and groaned. 

Though he wasn’t sure how it was possible, his embarrassment grew to unknown heights when he stepped out of the bathroom and for the first time noticed the hall clock hanging on the wall opposite the door. It was a quarter to four o’clock. Morse knew he hadn’t been in the bath that long and it hadn’t taken too long for him to eat his afternoon breakfast. All of which meant it must have been well past three o’clock when he woke up. It also meant he had little time to escape before DI Thursday came home. He didn’t feel up to facing his boss. He quietly went back into the spare room and was glad to see his shoes were there. He slid them on and, after scanning the room for his wallet and keys and not finding them, descended the stairs. Mrs. Thursday popped her head out of the kitchen as she heard him step into the hall.

“There you are,” she said brightly. “Feel better for a bath?”

“Yes, thank you,” he lied. He still had a raging headache, although he thought that at this point it could be attributed to stress as much as his hangover. He spotted his keys and wallet on the hall table and reached for them.

“I hope you’re not thinking of leaving before dinner, dear?” Mrs. Thursday said.

Morse gaped at her for a moment, feeling a bit like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit jar. His hand was paused mid reach over his wallet. “Uh,” he said. “I really don’t want to put you to anymore trouble, Mrs. Thursday. I really should be getting out of your hair.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear.” She left the kitchen to come stand next to him. “You’re no trouble at all.” He seriously doubted that and felt a little defiant as he finally grasped his wallet.

“At least let me pay you back for the clothes,” he said. Shuffling through is wallet was a bit difficult with his bandaged hand, but he managed to grasp a few notes before Mrs. Thursday’s hands covered his.

“No, no. Don’t worry about it, dear,” she said. 

“Mrs. Thursday-” He headache was getting worse and all he wanted to do was leave.

“It’s Win, dear,” she said, changing the subject on him. She pulled his wallet out his hands and placed it back on the hall table. “Now, it feels like you got your bandages wet in the bath. Come through to the kitchen and I’ll change them.” She didn’t give him a chance to argue as she grabbed the wrist of his bandaged hand and pulled him after her into the kitchen. 

“No please, Mrs. Thursday, you’re in the middle of cooking,” he said as he saw the chopped ingredients and simmering pot.

“Oh hush now. This won’t take a tick,” she said, making him sit at a small table big enough for only two people to sit at tucked into the corner. 

Evidently, she had expected to change his bandages as the necessary supplies were already on the table. Morse winced as she unwrapped the bandage and exposed the raw injury to the air. It was a long jagged cut across his palm and there were scabs around the stitches. Mrs. Thursday inspected it for a while before turning to her supplies.

“Well, it looks better than yesterday,” she said. They were silent for a moment as she gently dabbed at the wound with cotton wool soaked in rubbing alcohol. Morse did his best not to react to how much it stung. Eventually, Mrs. Thursday spoke again. “Do you remember how you did this?” she asked.

Morse shrugged. “Broke a glass by accident.”

“Hmm, yes. There was a lot of glass embedded in it. Took the doctor a good while to get it all out.” They were silent for a moment more before she said, “You know you can always come to Fred and me, for anything, don’t you? If you ever need to help or even just want to talk?”

He looked away from her and instead stared at the simmering pot on the stove. Potatoes he guessed. 

“Morse?” she said, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t think he could. He didn’t understand what she was trying to say. He heard her sigh and felt her begin to wrap a new bandage around his hand. “Well, you can you know,” she said. “Come to us. Talk to us. No matter what.” She patted his newly bandaged hand. “There we go, all finished. Why don’t you go have a sit in the lounge until Fred gets back? You can listen to the radio in there.”’

He turned back to her and saw the sad and worried expression behind her well meaning smile. He hated that he was going to disappoint her. Morse forced himself to smile at her and nod. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Thursday,” he said and stood. “I’ll do that.”

Guilt gnawed at him as she smiled more warmly at him. She went back to her cooking as he went through to the lounge and turned the radio on. The clock on the mantelpiece read just past five o’clock. There wasn’t much time left before DI Thursday would be home. He didn’t particularly pay attention to what station he put on and after a few minutes stuck his head back out into the hall. Seeing that Mrs. Thursday was busy with her cooking, he quietly crept down the hall to the front door. 

Morse scooped up his wallet and keys. He was a bit disappointed to see his coat hadn’t made it to the Thursday house with him, but shrugged it off. He didn’t think it was too far a walk to the bus stop. He quietly slipped out the front door and carefully closed it behind him so Mrs. Thursday wouldn’t hear him. The wonders of fickle British weather had kicked in and despite the earlier sunshine, it was now beginning to pour. Morse hunched in on himself and hurried down the street. He managed to just get around the street corner as he heard the familiar roar of a car engine and saw the lights flash across the street as the jag pulled onto the other end of the street he had just left. 

* * *

Thursday hurried through his front door, glad to be out of the pouring rain. A bedraggled Strange followed behind him. He had invited Strange in for a drink and a meal. When Thursday had stepped into CID that morning the first thing Strange had asked him was how Morse was doing. Thursday had contemplated glossing over the truth, but Morse and Strange were friends and he felt Morse could do with the help of as many friends as he had right now. So he told Strange everything that had transpired the night before. And now Strange was here for dinner and Thursday was desperately hoping he would be able to help get through to Morse. The lad only got pricklier if you tried to help him and Fred didn’t feel equipped to get through that on his own. That and after the awful day he’d had he felt better with another officer in the house to keep an eye on Morse. He gestured for Strange to hang up his dripping coat as Win came out of the kitchen.

“Hello, love,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “And hello, Jim, how are you? I hope you’ll stay for dinner?”

Strange smiled at Mrs. Thursday. “I’m well, thank you, Mrs. Thursday. And if it’s not too much trouble I’d love to.”

“It’s Win, dear,” she said. “And it’s no trouble at all. Now you two go through to the lounge. Morse is already in there.”

“How is he?” Fred asked, keeping his voice low. He could hear the radio coming from the lounge and was glad for the additional cover. “I’ve told him everything,” he added when he saw his wife glance at Strange.

She gave him a sad smile. “Quiet,” she said. “Slept most of the day so he didn’t get into much trouble. But I really had to work to convince him to stay.”

Fred sighed. “Right, well, best we go see him, then. Thanks, love.” 

He kissed her on the cheek and led Strange into the room where Morse was waiting. Only Morse wasn’t there. The radio was playing to an empty room.

“Morse?” he called out, returning to the hall. “Win, did you hear him go upstairs?” He glanced in the dining room, but couldn’t see Morse anywhere. 

“No,” she said. “Is everything alright?” 

Thursday thundered up the stairs, Strange not for behind him. They quickly searched the upstairs for Morse but the lad was nowhere to be found. Panic started to rise in Thursday.

“Fred,” Win’s voice reached him as she appeared at the top of the stairs. “What’s wrong?”

Strange emerged from one of the bedrooms shaking his head. “He’s not here, sir. He must have slipped out.”

But Thursday barely heard him, barely saw him. All he could see was the image that had haunted him all day. Early that afternoon, when they had gone down to the cells to question Nelson Whitmore, a horrifying sight had met them. Whitmore was gone and he had left a parting message behind. He had killed a PC and taken his clothes, leaving the poor man slashed and hacked, bleeding to death on the cell floor. And he had used his blood to write a message on the wall. Only this time, it was no cryptic clue that only Thursday’s bagman could have figured out. It was one, crystal clear word. One word that told Thursday exactly who Whitmore was going to go for next. 

_ MORSE _

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Morse had meant to catch the bus. The bus stop was a short walk from the Thursday’s house, but the pouring rain had already soaked through his clothes. Better to get on the bus as soon as possible and get back to his flat so he could change. There was just one problem with his plan. As Morse approached the bus stop, a bus pulled up to it. He made to dash to catch it, but instead had to jump behind some tall hedges. Miss Thursday and Sam were stepping off the bus, huddled under a shared umbrella. The hedges hid him from sight, but that also meant he couldn’t see them anymore.

He cursed under his breath. He’d been stupid to forget that they took the bus. He could hear their voices approaching his hiding spot, chatting about what they’d been up to at work. Then, they were interrupted by the roar of an engine.

“Hello, Jim,” Miss Thursday’s voice called cheerily.

“Hello, Joan, Sam,” Strange’s voice replied. So he was the one driving the jag then. “You haven’t happened to’ve seen Morse have you?” Morse’s stomach sank. Had Thursday really sent Jim Strange out to look for him. He was a grown man for goodness sake. He could take care of himself. He didn’t need a babysitter, much less a Detective Sergeant to go looking for him, just because he didn’t want to stay for dinner and bother the Thursday’s anymore than he already had.

“No, not since last night?” Sam said, confusion coloring his voice.

“Is everything alright?” Miss Thursday asked.

Jim was silent for a minute. Then he sighed. “He slipped out of your house at some point and we can’t find him. Here, you two get in, I’ll tell you more while I drive you home.”

Morse heard car doors slam and the rumble of the jag’s engine driving off. He waited a moment then peaked his head out from behind the hedge. They were gone. And so was the bus. Grumbling to himself, Morse began walking again. It was all utterly ridiculous. What did they care if he went home instead of staying at the Thursday’s? With the bus gone, he decided he was better off just walking home. He didn’t know how long it would take for another bus to arrive, he was going to keep getting soaked no matter if he walked or waited, and he didn’t fancy another runin with Strange or anyone else Thursday had sent after him. 

He kept his head down and shoulders hunched, only looking up to check he was going the right direction or to check for traffic as he crossed a street. Even with his hands stuffed in his pockets, the new bandage Mrs. Thursday had wrapped around his injured hand was already soaked through. His hand was throbbing, as was his head, and he began to shiver in the cold rain. He was relieved when he turned onto his street and could see the top of the steps leading to his basement flat. He was so relieved and eager to get into the warmth, that he didn’t notice the figure detach itself from the shadows and begin to follow him. 

Morse reached the top of the stairs and pulled his keys out. He heard a noise behind him. But before he could turn, pain erupted across the back of his head. His stomach dropped as he felt himself falling down the stairs. Pain shot through his whole body as he fell onto the hard landing below. Lights danced before his eyes as he hit his head again and he saw the hazy silhouette of a man descending the steps towards him before blackness enveloped him. 

* * *

Thursday paced around his office feeling completely useless. After Strange had returned from the bus stop with Sam and Joan, but no Morse, the last vestiges of hope that the lad would be found quickly disappeared. He had called Bright to explain the situation and Bright had, thankfully, given him full access to station resources. Then he had called the duty sergeant at the station and ordered a patrol out to search for Morse. They had to find him before Whitmore did. He and Strange had bundled back into the jag and driven to Morse’s flat. 

As Strange drove, Thursday had desperately watched the streets for any sign of his probably bedraggled bagman. But he saw no sign of the boy. He knew that it could easily be because Morse had simply taken a different route home than the one he and Strange were driving. But Fred couldn’t stop the dread rising in his chest. He told himself to calm down. Morse could already be at his flat and they’d find him there drying off and grumpy.

The last of Thursday’s hope disappeared as they reached Morse’s flat. Several patrol cars were already outside it and he could see PCs milling around the stairs that lead down to the basement flat. WPC Trewlove approached them as they got out of the car.

“He’s not here, sir,” she said.

“No sign of him at all?” Thursday asked. Despite his best efforts, his voice shook slightly. Flashes of what Whitmore had done to his victims kept appearing in front of his eyes, except this time the victims’ faces were replaced by Morse’s.

Trewlove grimaced and beckoned them to follow. Thursday followed her to the top of the stairs and looked down. He heard Strange swear behind him. There was blood, splattered down the steps and on the landing below where it was pooling in the accumulating rain. The rain had evidently washed away a lot already, but not enough to obliterate the evidence completely. And there in the middle of it all was a set of keys lying at the base of the steps.

“There was more blood when we arrived,” Trewlove said. “But it’s raining so hard we couldn’t save it in time. There was more leading away from the scene, but it’s mostly gone now. PC Wilson managed to get some pictures though.”

“He’s been taken, then,” Strange said.

“Looks like it,” Trewlove said. “His flat is still locked, although we peeked through the windows and there’s blood in there too.”

“That’s from last night,” Thursday said, finding his voice. “Cut his hand on a broken glass and had to get stitches.”

Trewlove nodded. 

“Neighbors see anything?” Strange asked.

“No, nothing,” Trewlove said.

“Right, well,” Thursday said. “You finish up here, Constable, and bring anything more you find back to the station.” He turned to Strange. “Best we get back to the station and try to figure this out.”

And so they had returned to the station. That had all been last night. Thursday and Strange had forgone sleep in favor of pouring over the Whitmore evidence, hoping that they’d find something to suggest where Whitmore would have taken Morse. They waited for any news to come in from the patrolling PCs. But there was no sign of Morse or Whitmore. No one matching Morse’s description had turned up at any of the area hospitals. No one on Morse’s street had seen anything suspicious. Searches of Whitmore’s previous haunts had turned up empty. And without Morse, he and Strange struggled to make sense of Whitmore’s patterns.

Finally, as dawn broke, Thursday stopped pacing his office and collapsed into his chair. They had nothing to go on. Not even a single lead. Morse and Whitmore had vanished almost without a trace, leaving only quickly washed away blood and a set of keys at the entrance to Morse’s flat. Fred put his face in his hands. He had lost Morse. The clock was ticking on when they would still be able to find Morse alive. They had a day, maybe two, at best before Whitmore left his mutilated body somewhere. There was a knock on the door and Thursday looked up to see Strange poking his head through the opening

“Sir,” Strange said, “a body’s been found down by the river.” 

* * *

Morse groaned as consciousness returned. Every inch of his body was throbbing. He couldn’t tell if the back of his head, his ribs, or his arm hurt more. He tried to move the arm and sharp knives of pain clawed all the way up to his shoulder. It was broken, then. His ribs must have been broken too because every breath brought with it a sharp stab of pain. And his head just throbbed, the pain emanating from the back where he vaguely remembered being hit.

Morse blinked, trying to break through the haze of pain. He was surrounded by darkness. He was lying on his side, curled into a ball, and he could only just make out the shape of his hands and knees in front of him. Slowly, he forced himself to roll onto his back. He gritted his teeth, trying to hold in the scream that threatened to rip itself from his throat and in the end it emerged as a whimper. As he settled onto his back he realized his ankles and wrists were tied together.

The only light permeating the darkness was what filtered down through the gaps floorboards above him. The light flickered, dancing in front of his eyes and he wondered if the source of it was a fire above him. It wasn’t enough to see much detail by, but Morse was thankful for it nonetheless. His head was still throbbing and he was sure any more light would have only made it worse. Morse closed his eyes and took as much of a deep breath as he could against the pain in his ribs. He took a moment to assess his surroundings using his other senses.

He was cold, oh so very cold. His clothes were still wet and clung to him uncomfortably. The bandage around his hand was also soaked. The ground beneath him was hard and unforgiving. He could feel it leeching even more of his body heat away from him. Morse strained his ears, listening for any sign of who had attacked him. He remember leaving the Thursdays’ house. He remembered walking home in the pouring rain. He remembered reaching his flat. And then, he remembered hearing someone behind him and pain. The only explanation for his situation was that someone had ambushed him outside his flat. But who?

Morse listened for a while, but heard nothing but the drip of water somewhere else in the room and the occasional howl of a breeze. He never felt the wind though and it sounded as if it were above him. He was underground then, he thought, most likely a basement in an old building if the gaps in the floorboards above him were anything to go by. 

He let himself drift in and out of consciousness. The cold was making him oh so very tired and sleep was the closest he could come to escaping the pain. A few times he tried to loosen the ropes on his wrists, but was rewarding with nothing but skinned raw wrists and sharp pains shooting up his broken arm. Once he tried to sit up, but the pain was so great that nausea swept over him. He fought against it, desperately afraid of the agony that would accompany being sick with broken ribs. 

Morse wasn’t sure how long he had been here or how much time had passed since he first woke up. He let himself drift on the tendrils of his consciousness. Part of him knew his situation was dire. He was injured and still in wet clothing. He doubted it would be long before hypothermia set in. But he was too tired, in too much pain to care. Then, above him, he heard the slam of the door and heavy footsteps and the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. He opened his eyes and could make out a shadow through the gaps in the ceiling. Then there was the sound of another door opening and of footsteps on stairs. A beam of bright light searched the room before coming to rest shining in his face. Morse groaned and closed his eyes. The extra light was like a lance going through his eyes and out the back of his head.

“Ah, so you’re finally awake.”

Morse’s heart skipped a beat. He knew that voice. It was pitched high and overly cultured as if its owner looked down on every other person around him. And Morse knew that its owner did. He remembered the voice from when he had first interviewed the man who he would soon discover was the brutal murderer he had been searching for. The voice belonged to Nelson Whitmore. But no, that couldn’t be true. He had seen Whitmore arrested. He knew he had been locked up. There was no possible logical explanation for how Whitmore could be in the room with him. Unless… unless he had escaped.

The light came closer and then hands grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him up into a sitting position. He couldn’t stop the cry that left his lips. His ribs screamed against him, his arm hung limp and useless and agonizing, and it felt as if the world was spinning around him. Nausea reared its ugly head again and Morse bit the inside of his cheek trying to keep it at bay. He felt himself tipping forward, unable to keep himself upright. 

“Come on, man, sit up, I want to chat,” Whitmore said, pushing Morse upright again.

The light finally left Morse’s face and he cautiously opened his eyes. Whitemore was standing in front of him, now shining the torch into Morse’s lap instead of his face. He still had to squint against the pain, but at least now he could see his assailant and captor. Whitmore was smiling at him, a menacing, hate filled smile.

“Detective Constable Morse,” he said. “We meet again. Although in my opinion these are much more favorable circumstances than when we last saw each other. I was surprised when you didn’t turn up to question me and then even more surprised when you didn’t have the courtesy to be in the station when I escaped. But I found you in the end.”

“How did you escape?” Morse asked, his voice rasping against his throat.

“Oh, I’m not going to tell you that, dear fellow,” Whitmore said, his smile growing wider. “No, no, we’re not here to talk about my past. We’re here to talk about your future.”

Morse raised his eyebrows. A knot was forming in his aching stomach. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what else Whitemore had to say.

“You see, Mr. Morse,” the man continued, “my plan was going oh so well. I was checking off my list, delivering my retribution on those who deserved it, and then you got in the way. You interrupted me, delayed my plans, and now I only have a short time to complete them. I feel very… insulted.”

Morse swallowed. He had an idea of where Whitmore was going with this. He meant to continue his murder spree. And Morse knew who his next victim was, they had only just gotten her to safety when they apprehended Whitmore. 

“And so,” Whitmore was saying, “I have decided to add another name to my list. I think you’ll make a marvelous finale to my work. And you needn’t wait long. There only a couple names left on my list. In fact,” Whitmore glanced down at his watch, “you’re colleagues should be finding one just about now.”

Then, without warning, Whitmore stepped forward and kicked Morse in the stomach. Morse breath left him and he curled into himself, falling back onto his side from his position against the wall. He gasped for air. Distantly, he could hear Whitmore laughing, but the sound faded as blankness enveloped him.

* * *

Thursday's stomach felt like it was filled with lead as he approached the cluster of people gathered by the boat house. Part of his brain whispered that it couldn’t be Morse, it was too soon after he had been taken for it to be Morse, but the louder part of his mind insisted that he was about to see his bagman’s mutilated corpse. He was vaguely aware of Strange walking beside him, but paid him little attention. His eyes were fixed on Dr. Debryn as the pathologist came into view, crouched in front of a body. His stomach dropped further as he saw the shock of red hair behind the doctor and then lifted as slightly as Debryn stood and revealed the body of a middle aged women. Then, as Thursday recognized her, his stomach sank again. It was Enid Brown, the woman they had only just saved from being taken by Whitmore.

Thursday cursed himself. He had been so taken up with Whitmore taking Morse that it hadn’t occurred to him that the murderous former don might continue with his murder spree before killing Morse. On the one hand, it meant they had more time to find Morse. On the other it meant god knows how many more innocent people would die before they did. Debryn turned around and nodded in greeting.

“Inspector. Strange,” the doctor said. “I was under the impression that I had been saved from having Mrs. Brown turn up on my slab.”

“Whitmore escaped yesterday,” Strange said. 

“Yes, I know,” Debryn said, cooly. “I attended to your unfortunate PC last night. My condolences.”

From the corner of his eye Thursday saw Strange nod, but he couldn’t rip his eyes away from the body of Enid Brown. They had failed her.  _ He _ had failed her. They should have put her under police protection the moment they had discovered Whitmore had escaped. He closed his eyes for a moment, then forced himself to look at Debryn.

“Time of death?” he asked.

“Sometime between midnight and two this morning,” Debryn said. “I’ll need to have a rummage before I can confirm, but cause of death seems to be the same as all the others. Exsanguination following prolonged torture. And of course, the usual pageantry left behind by Mr. Whitmore.”

Thursday followed Debryn’s gaze to the boat house. On the outer wall, painted in deep red blood, were words.

_ OF FOUR STONE MEN _

_ ONLY ONE IS GREAT _

_ THE GRASS BETWEEN THEM _

_ IS WHERE HE WILL WAIT _

Fred rubbed his eyes and sighed. They needed Morse for this. If they were going to save the next victim, they needed Morse to solve the two riddles left for them. The first was written plainly on the boathouse. Where the next victim would be found. The second was all around them, their very location. Who the next victim was. And, with a sense of deepening horror, a riddle within a riddle. The writing on the wall didn’t just reveal where the next victim would be found. It revealed who the victim after that would be. 

_ OF FOUR STONE MEN _

_ ONLY ONE IS GREAT _

_ THE GRASS BETWEEN THEM _

_ IS WHERE HE WILL WAIT _

Did the bloody words refer to Morse? Did they refer to some other innocent person? Thursday took one last look around the crime scene, taking in as many details as he could. Then he turned on his heel and stalked back to the car. He needed time to think and right now the best place to do that was his office.

* * *

A high piercing scream woke Morse. It ripped him back into consciousness with a pain filled jolt. He struggled to sit up but the pain coursing through his body made it impossible. He didn’t understand how his body could be so numb and yet in so much pain. 

Another scream rent the air and Morse stared up at the cracks of light slipping through the floorboards above him. He could see shadows moving in the flickering light, one moving more than the other. The shadow moved closer to the other and there was another scream followed by a slew of words so hysterical Morse couldn’t understand them. With a growing sense of horror, his sluggish brain realized that it was Whitmore upstairs with his next victim. Morse struggled against his bonds, but the ropes just cut deeper into his skin and every inch of his body rebelled against the movement. He was helpless. He could do nothing. He had no choice, but to lie there and listen to a man die a horrible death. 

Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and a sob ripped itself from his chest causing a fresh wave of pain. It hurt so much but he couldn’t stop himself as more sobs came. Morse listened to the sounds of another man dying and cried, knowing that he would likely be next. Eventually, the pain took over and darkness enveloped him once again, the sound of the man’s screams fading into the distance.

* * *

Thursday had never known the CID to be so crowded and yet so quiet. The room was filled with men combing through witness statements, looking through crime scene photographs, and scouring maps of Oxford, but barely a whisper could be heard over the sound of rustling papers. With one of their own killed and another taken, a somber mood had wrapped itself around the office. By the glass partition, stood Strange and Trewlove staring at the enlarged photograph pinned in the middle. It showed a boathouse with blood red words on its side.

_ OF FOUR STONE MEN _

_ ONLY ONE IS GREAT _

_ THE GRASS BETWEEN THEM _

_ IS WHERE HE WILL WAIT _

Thursday had just re-entered the main CID office, having spoken with Bright. The Chief Superintendent had agreed to call in reinforcements from County to boost the search, but Fred doubted it would do much good. They wouldn’t find Whitmore by accident. If they wanted to find him, if they wanted to save Morse, they had to figure out his clues. They had at least figured out who the next victim was.

Now that they knew what they were looking for, it didn't take long to learn from Whitmore’s former colleagues that he had had quite a heated dispute with one Mark Shepard over damage done to his boat. And when Thursday and Strange had tried to track Shepard down, there was no trace of him. Just a broken window in his living, letting in the breeze from his back garden. That had been at just past five in the evening. Now, it was nearly ten. It was pitchblack outside, the rain clouds blocking out the moon and the stars. Perfect weather for dumping a body.

Thursday walked over to where Strange and Trewlove were standing. Trewlove had a map in her hand and was looking between the map and the photograph, a frown forming on her face.

“Morse attended Oxford, didn’t he?” she said, looking back down at the map.

“Yes,” Thursday said. “Lonsdale.”

“What did he study?” Trewlove asked.

Strange, who had been staring intently at the photograph, snapped his head around so fast Thursday was momentarily concerned for his neck. But then the meaning of her question hit him. Greats. Morse had studied Greats. 

_ OF FOUR STONE MEN _

_ ONLY ONE IS GREAT _

_ THE GRASS BETWEEN THEM _

_ IS WHERE HE WILL WAIT _

He heard Strange echo his thoughts aloud.

“If this hints to the next location and that location hints to the next victim and assuming that’s Morse…”

“Then,” Trewlove said, “we’ll find the next body at Lonsdale.”

“But where in Lonsdale?” Thursday asked, finding his voice again.

Trewlove’s frown deepened and she looked back down at the map. Thursday and Strange stood on either side of her to look at it over her shoulder. Then she gasped.

“The quad!” she said, pointing at the map. “Isn’t one of the sides dedicated to Greats?”

“Yes,” Strange said.

They all looked at each other, stunned. 

“Of four stone men, only one is great,” Trewlove said. “Of the four sides only one is for Greats. The grass between them is where he will wait. It has to be the quad.”

“It can’t be that simple, can it?” Strange said. “All the other ones were so convoluted.”

“He’s running out of time,” Thursday said. “He knows we’re on to him. He might not have had time to come up with something more clever.”

“And besides,” Trewlove said, “his plan has changed.” The two men looked at her. “He probably meant to dump Shepard somewhere else. But now he’s got an eighth intended victim. Morse.”

“So he had to come up with something on the fly, then” Strange said.

“Exactly,” said Trewlove.

Thursday turned to the room and boomed at the others to get as many people as they could to Lonsdale’s quad. It may be too late for them to save Mark Shepard, but Thursday would be damned if it was too late for Morse. They’d catch Whitmore in the act and then they’d make him talk.

* * *

Pain ripped through Morse’s right hand. A hoarse scream ripped itself from his throat and he opened his eyes to see Whitmore’s boot grinding his bandaged hand into the ground. He could feel his stitches ripping, his tendons popping, his bones cracking. Finally, Whitmore lifted his foot as dark red seeped through the dirty, wet bandages. Whitmore hauled Morse into a sitting position and smiled at him.

“Good, you’re awake,” he said.

Morse couldn’t speak. Tears made Whitmore’s face blur and the light from his torch shimmer like star light. But Whitmore didn’t seem to care about Morse’s silence. He kept on speaking.

“I’m sure you heard my little project upstairs,” he was saying, pausing a moment to sip from glass of whiskey. “I just wish I had had more time. But I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. I’m just about to go and leave him for your friends to find, but I thought I’d stop by and see how you are doing first. Can’t have you dying on me before we get to the fun.”

“You’re mad,” Morse croaked. “Mad.”

Whitmore sneered at him. “I’ve been wronged and I’ll take what’s rightfully owed to me. If that’s madness then so be it.” He tilted his head up and drained glass in one gulp. “Now I’m afraid I must leave you. As I said, I have an appointment.” Then he raised his arm and smashed the glass into the side of Morse’s head.

Stars danced in front of Morse’s eyes as he fell onto his side again. He didn’t feel too much pain this time. He was too cold. Far away, he registered that Whitmore was going up a staircase and then dragging something heavy. And then, silence. 

Morse wasn’t sure how long he lay there. Numbly, he became aware of blood dripping down his face. Then, in the dim flickering light from above his, something glinted just in front of his face. He stared at it for a while, until eventually, momentarily, it came into focus. It was the remains of Whitmore’s glass. Most of it was shattered away, likely embedded in the side of his head, but this shard was large and jagged and sharp. 

A harsh, desperate, half mad laugh ripped through his body. A broken glass had likely gotten him into this mess. Now, another one might just get him out. He forced his arms to move, gritting his teeth against the intense pain in his broken arm, a pain even the cold couldn’t dull. He numb fingers scrambled at the glass. His right hand wasn’t working properly, but he eventually grasped the shard with his left. Slowly, painstakingly, Morse cut through his bonds. 

Then he crawled. He crawled up the stairs, cries of pain slipping past his lips. He crawled across an old wooden floor, feeling splinters digging into him. He did his best to ignore the blood splattered everywhere, aware that between all of his injuries he was likely adding to the horrifying scene. He made it to a chair and table and pulled himself up to stand. He wavered on his feet, unsteady, dizzy, and numb. He barely took in his surroundings, just made himself take unsteady steps towards a door. 

He pushed through the door and breathed in the cool, damp night air. The pouring rain he remembered had turned into a heavy mist that soaked through his clothes in moments. It was pitch black outside, except for a solitary light in the distance. And within the light, he could see red. A phone box. He staggered towards the phone box, each step threatening to topple him to the ground. Eventually, when he was just a few yards away, his legs gave out and he collapsed, crying out as he landed on his broken arm. Blinking through the tears and pushing away the pain and numbness, he forced himself to crawl the rest of the distance. He hauled himself up and inside and slumped against the side. With a shaking hand he lifted the phone and dialed.

A voice answered on the other end. He couldn’t quite make out the words. The world was growing dark around him, enveloping him in blackness, cold, and pain.

“Morse,” he croaked into the receiver. “It’s Morse.” He wasn’t sure if the voice could hear him, if it could understand him, but he persisted, his blurring vision falling on the phone box’s number. He repeated the number and his name over and over again as he sank to the floor, praying the voice would understand.

* * *

It was difficult to see through the mist, but Thursday could just make out the glow of the lights by the entrance to Lonsdale’s quad. Strange was sitting in the driver’s seat. Trewlove was in the back, manning a radio. Thursday sat in the passenger seat, not letting his eyes leave the halo of light before them. They had been waiting in the car for almost an hour, one of many cars lying in weight for the madman. Other officers were stationed in the buildings surrounding the quad, keeping a watchful eye out for any movement. It was certainly a bold location to choose to dump a body, even in the middle of the night. Thursday just prayed Trewlove was right. He prayed that they would be able to re-apprehend Whitmore and force him to tell them where Morse was. Thursday didn’t particularly care what methods were used to extract the information, so long as they worked.

The radio crackled to life. Movement on the other side of the quad. There had been a few false alarms already, so Strange kept the car were it was. Bright’s voice gave the men their orders. It was unusual for the Chief Superintendent to be present with them on a stake out, but given the circumstances, Thursday wasn’t surprised. The radio went silent. Thursday’s nerves grew thinner as anticipation raked at them. Then the car radio, not Trewlove’s radio, crackled into life.

Strange answered the hail, then handed the receiver to Thursday when he was requested.

“Thursday,” he said, impatiently.

“We’ve had a call from a phone box just outside the city limits, sir.” Thursday recognized the voice of the duty sergeant on the desk. “Couldn’t get much out of the caller, but sounds like it could be Morse. He just kept saying Morse and the phone box’s number. Phone’s still engaged, but we’re not getting any response any more.”

Thursday’s breath caught. Before he could answer, Trewlove’s radio crackled again, then filled the car with urgent orders. Whitmore had arrived. They were going to catch him. Thursday, Strange, and Trewlove looked at each other.

“Give us the address,” Thursday said. “And send an ambulance, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in writing this. I surprised myself with the twist at the end of chapter 2 and had to take some time to figure out where the plot was going next. It also got a lot darker than I expected, which is why I'm upping the rating just to be safe. Next chapter will be back to the comfort part of hurt comfort. Hope you enjoyed where this went. Feel free to comment!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey sorry for taking so long to update this! Life has been a bit crazy because I got a new job and moved! So I'm slowly getting around to writing again. This chapter was meant to be longer, but I wanted to post something sooner rather than later so there will be more coming with more of the Thursdays trying to help Morse. Hope you enjoy!

The misty rain made it almost impossible to see the road in front of them. But Strange, it seemed, was paying it no heed. Thursday had never seen the sergeant drive so recklessly before, but he had no desire to stop him. He had no doubt they were running out of time. That Morse was running out of time. The duty sergeant had said there was no response on the other end of the phone. Luckily, the late hour and the weather combined to keep the roads quiet. They passed few other cars as they sped to the outskirts of the city. The stone buildings thinned out and faded away, replaced by stretches of fields and forest. And then, there ahead of them nestled on the edge of a clump of trees was a solitary phone box, bathed in a halo of light from an adjacent street lamp. And inside, an unmoving shadow.

Strange pulled the jag to a stop right in front of the phone box, brakes squeaking and wheels skidding with the sudden change in speed. The car had barely stopped before Thursday threw the door open and ran to the phone box, pulling the door open with such force he felt it shudder beneath his fingers. He paid it no mind. All his attention was focused on the crumpled heap before him. It was Morse.

The boy was deathly pale, a blue tinge to his lips, and covered in blood. Half of his face was spattered with red, the source of which looked to be some wound on the side of his head that was mostly obscured by his blood matted curls. Then there was his right hand, still covered by a bandage Fred knew Win had wrapped around it only that afternoon. But now it was filthy and blood soaked and, like the rest of Morse, soaking wet. Even unconscious, the lad held his right arm at an awkward angle, telling Thursday it was most likely broken. 

“Morse?” he said, his voice cracking. The boy didn’t stir. Tentatively, Thursday crouched and reached out and pressed two fingers to Morse’s neck to find a pulse. The boy was freezing. He watched the lad’s chest and was relieved to see it moving with each breath, even if it was shallow and uneven. Beneath his fingers he felt Morse’s heart beat, slow, far too slow, but still present. He was alive.

“Where’s that ambulance?” he called over his shoulder. 

“Still at least ten minutes away, sir” Trewlove called back. “I’ve confirmed our location with them.”

Strange appeared beside Thursday, holding his large coat in his hands. “Christ,” he whispered. Then, seemingly remembering himself, he proffered the coat to Thursday. “Here, best get this round him. He looks half frozen.”

Thursday took the coat, grunting in thanks. He leaned forward and gently as he could, placed the coat over Morse’s slumped form, across his shoulders. Then he pulled off his own and draped it over the boy’s legs. Morse’s eyes fluttered.

“Morse?” Thursday said. He reached out again and gently placed a hand on the lad’s bloodstained cheek. It was ice cold. Morse immediately flinched away, eyes flying open. They were wide and unfocused and full of fear.

“No,” the boy croaked, pressing himself deeper into the phone box’s corner. He let out a cry of pain as he jostled his broken arm. “No, please, no.”

Thursday held his hands up, not wanting to scare the lad any further. “Hey, easy now, lad,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s me, Thursday, hey? It’s Fred. Morse?”

But Morse didn’t seem to understand him. He just continued to cower away from Thursday, whimpering and mumbling small pleas not to hurt him. Thursday didn’t know what to do. The lad was evidently delirious. He desperately wanted to get Morse out of the phone box and into the warm car, but he dared not reach out to him. The boy would just end up hurting himself more if he struggled. Thursday felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to look up at Strange.

“I’m going to back away,” Strange said. “Give him less of us to be scared of. I’ll have Shirley give the ambulance an update on his condition so they know what to expect.”

Thursday could only nod. Strange disappeared from his side and Fred turned his attention back to his bagman. Morse was just whimpering now, tears forming tracks down his blood spattered cheek. His eyes were closed again. Thursday could hear Strange and Trewlove talking behind him, but he paid them no attention. He kept his focus fully on the terrified, injured boy in front of him. He couldn’t reach out to him. He couldn’t sooth him. But he could sit here and watch and wait and make sure he didn’t slip away somewhere Fred couldn’t follow.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Thursday heard the wail of an ambulance siren. There was a burst of bright light behind him and he turned to see that Trewlove and Strange had lit flares to signal the ambulance. Morse had gone quiet again, barely moving except for his shallow breathing, but at the piercing sound and bright light his eyes flew open again and he let out a cry of pain and fear.

“It’s alright,” Fred said, holding up his hands again, trying to be as non threatening as possible. “You’re alright, lad. It’s just the ambulance. They’re here to help you, alright?”

But Thursday could tell his words weren’t making it to the boy. Morse just pressed himself back into the corner, fresh tears streaking his cheeks. The ambulance emerged from the mist in a halo of flashing lights and Thursday quickly moved out of the way as the paramedics rushed towards the phone box. Morse tried to fight them, fresh wails of pain making Thursday’s heart ache, but they had been forewarned and quickly sedated him. Fred watched as they lifted Morse’s limp form onto a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. 

“Go with him,” Strange said, appearing by Thursday’s side. “Shirley and I will stay here and see if we can’t find where Whitmore was keeping him. It must be close. He can’t have gone far in his condition.”

Thursday nodded and grasped Strange’s shoulder for a moment. Then, he followed Morse into the ambulance.

* * *

Thursday rested his forehead against the hospital wall while the phone rang in his ear. It was a few hours before dawn, but he knew Win would still be awake. She answered after the second ring.

“Fred?” she said, her voice tentative.

“We found him,” he said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. “He’s in surgery. Has been for a bit now.”

“Oh, Fred,” Win said, her voice breaking slightly. “Is it serious?”

“Broken bones, hypothermia,” Thursday said. “Doctor says a concussion is likely. They’re fixing up his arm and hand right now. I’m going to spend the night here. Nurses say they’ll let me stay in his room once he’s out of surgery, given the circumstances. Better he doesn’t wake up alone with no one he knows around.”

“I’ll be there first thing in the morning,” she said. “And I’ll bring you something to change into.”

“Thanks, love,” he said. From the corner of his eye he saw a flicker of movement. It was Morse’s doctor, returning from surgery. “I’ve got to go, love,” he said.

“He’ll be fine, Fred. You’ll take care of him. See you in the morning.”

He said goodbye and strode back into the waiting room where Morse’s doctor was talking to Bright.

The night had been a whirlwind of nightmarish activity. As soon as they had arrived at the hospital, Morse had been whisked away and Thursday had been interrogated by a very stern nurse. He told her as much as he could, but he didn’t know what Whitmore had put Morse through. Just that the boy had been barely conscious and terrified out of his mind when they found him. 

Shortly after that Bright had arrived, bringing some relatively good news with him. Whitmore had been successfully apprehended and was now back in lockup with at least three PCs watching him at all times. Strange and Trewlove had found an abandoned farmhouse not far up the road from the phone box. Upon further investigation, the upper level was covered in blood splatter and searching the basement had revealed more blood, cut rope, and broken glass. Evidently, it was where Whitmore had kept Morse. A crime scene team was there now, gathering every scrap of evidence they could find.

At Bright’s insistence they had been given regular updates on Morse’s condition. Still sedated, severely hypothermic, and in need of surgery to fix his broken arm and crushed hand. On top of that he had several broken ribs and shards of glass embedded in the wound on the side of his head. The doctor thought a concussion was very likely, but they’d have to wait for Morse to wake up on his own.

“How is he?” Thursday asked, not caring that he was interrupting the conversation Bright and the doctor were having.

The doctor gave him a small smile. “He’s doing well. Surgery was a success, but he has a long recovery ahead of him. The breaks in his arm and hand were severe. He’s resting now and we’re continuing to warm him up. He’ll be asleep for a while yet, but I’m sure you’ve been told you’re more than welcome to wait with him, so long as you don’t disturb him.”

Thursday couldn’t help but sink into a chair. “Thank you, doctor,” he said, his voice still far hoarser than it usually was. He felt Bright place a hand on his shoulder.

“Why don’t you follow the doctor to Morse’s room and I’ll go find us some tea. Alright, Thursday?”

Thursday nodded and with great effort made himself stand again. He followed the doctor down a series of hallways until they stopped outside of a private room. The doctor said his goodbyes and left Thursday standing by the door. He hesitated in the doorway, unsure of what he would see. Then he shook himself and stepped into the room.

Morse was lying in a narrow bed, thoroughly wrapped in several layers of blankets so that only his head was visible. His face was still pale, but his lips were no longer tinged blue. His hair had been cleaned and stuck out at slightly odd angles from the bandage that wrapped tightly around his head. His face was slack, mouth slightly open as he breathed the deep, even breaths of one who was deeply asleep. A young nurse was fiddling with IV lines that ran under the blankets and she gave Thursday a small smile as he came to stand at the end of Morse’s bed. All he could do was stand there and stare down at his bagman and wonder how it had all come to this.

Thursday only turned away when he heard footsteps behind him and saw Bright enter the room, two cups of tea in hand. He nodded in thanks as Bright joined him at the end of the bed and handed him one of the cups. It was weak and flavorless, but did it’s job and settled Thursday’s nerves a bit. He would have really liked to smoke his pipe, but he was pretty sure the nurse would throw him out if he did and he had no intention of leaving Morse alone tonight.

Beside him, Bright sighed. “Bad business, Thursday,” he said. “Very bad business. But, at least we got him back.”

“Yes, sir,” Thursday said.

“You’re going to spend the rest of the night here, I understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Thursday repeated.

“Good. Good. He shouldn’t be alone. Not after what he’s been through. Don’t worry about coming in for a few days, either. DI McNutt has offered to help DS Strange sort everything out with Whitmore. You get some rest and take care of our boy.”

“Thank you, sir,” Thursday said. “I’ll do that.”

Bright took one last gulp of tea and then looked out the window. Thursday followed his gaze. There was little to see. Outside it was still inky black and would be for a few more hours.

“Very well,” Bright said. “Give Morse my best when he wakes up. Thursday.”

“Sir.” 

Bright strode out the room. The nurse had finished fiddling with the IV bags and was gently checking Morse’s vitals. As she pulled down the blankets, she revealed the rigid cast that encased most of Morse’s right arm and hand. It looked heavy and uncomfortable, but Morse continued to sleep on despite it and through the nurse’s ministrations. When she was done, she tucked the blankets back around his shoulders and gave Thursday another small smile before leaving the room.

Thursday set his half empty tea cup on the bedside table, pulled a plastic chair closer to Morse’s bed, and sat. He was exhausted and his old joints were aching from having been out in the cold rain for most of the night. But he pushed his discomfort from his mind and watched Morse sleep, waiting for the moment the boy would wake.

* * *

Morse felt so incredibly heavy. Every inch of his body felt as though it were weighed down. He felt as if he was sinking deep into something warm and soft. There was an ache hovering at the edge of his consciousness and he shied away from it lest it break through. He could remember pain and cold and fear, so much fear. He tried to push the memories away, terrified he would be returned to them if he didn’t. But try as he might they came crashing down on him. He could hear screaming and he knew he must still be with Whitmore, that Whitmore had found his next victim. And then he felt hands on him and he tried to push them away, but he was so heavy he didn’t have the strength. He felt himself cry out, more than he heard it. The hands would not go away.

“Morse!” a voice called very near him. It was Whitmore, he knew it was. Who else could it be?

“Morse!” the voice called again, and then “Endeavour!”

Morse sat bolt upright, opened his eyes, and stared up into the face of Fred Thursday. For a moment all he could do was stare, the bright light of the room stinging his eyes. And then it felt as though the world was crumbling around him and all he could do was sob. He sobbed until he could barely breathe. It hadn’t been Whitmore. He was with Thursday. He was safe.

“Easy now, lad,” he could hear Thursday saying. “Come on now, just breathe. Easy does it.” 

Morse realized that Thursday had a hand on his shoulder, the other gently rubbing circles across his back. He could hear other voices, buzzing in the background, but he shrank away from them. He leaned forward so his forehead came to rest on Thursday’s shoulder. He couldn’t stop the sobs still racking his whole being.

“That’s it,” Thursday said. “You’re alright. You’re safe. Easy, lad. Easy. Try to breathe properly.”

There was a movement to his left, but when Morse tried to look Thursday’s hand came to rest on the back of his head, gently keeping him in place.

“You’re fine,” Thursday said, keeping up his steady stream of soothing words.

Morse felt a sting in his left arm and soon he began to feel heavy again.

“Come on now,” said Thursday, suddenly sounding very far away. “Lie down. That’s it, lad. You just rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

Morse couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. The last thing he saw was Thursday leaning over him and a hand coming up to stroke his forehead. Then Morse sank back into the softness and the warmth and let his memories fade away.

* * *

Thursday made himself stand and stretch his aching back. He had been sitting in the plastic hospital chair for several hours, only getting up when Morse stirred from his sleep. The boy had been restless most of the night as the sedation wore off. On most occasions he had just shifted in his sleep, murmuring nonsense, and it took Thursday just some gentle words and soft touches to sooth him. But on one memorable occasion, that hadn’t been enough and Morse began to cry out in his sleep, whether from pain or fear, Thursday couldn’t tell. He had managed to wake the lad up, but he had been inconsolable. Fred could only hold him while he sobbed, trying to get him to breathe normally as he hyperventilated. Finally, the nurses had appeared and sedated him again. Thursday had spent several hours just watching the even rise and fall of Morse’s chest as he fell back into a deep sedated sleep.

Thursday went to stand by the window. Dawn was approaching, giving the mist outside a golden pink tinge. His back, hips, and knees protested moving after so long in one position, but Fred made himself walk up and down the length of the window, watching the hazy world outside grow brighter. A noise behind him made him turn around and he saw Win standing in the doorway. She was staring at Morse, her hand covering her mouth. In her other hand she carried a large bag. Fred walked over to her and pulled her into a tight hug.

“How is he?” she whispered against his shoulder.

“Restless night,” he said, breathing in the scent of her hair. “But he’s resting now. Nurses said he’ll wake up again in the next few hours. Surgery went well, but they say it’ll take some time for him to recover fully.”

They held each other a little longer, trying to push away the darkness that had invaded that night. Finally, Win pulled away and held him at arm's length, examining him. 

“Well, it’s a good thing I brought you a change of clothes, Fred Thursday. You look a right mess.”

Fred smiled. “Aye, and I feel like one, too. Thanks, love.”

She reached into her large bag and pulled out a pile of clothes for him. He gave her a quick kiss then went to find a loo. He knew she would take care of Morse while he was gone. It felt good to get into clean clothes. Fred would really have liked to have had a warm bath first, but it was a relief to be rid of the itch of muddy clothes. He had been soaked through when he first arrived at the hospital and overnight his clothes had slowly gone from wet to damp to oddly stiff and scratchy. Thankfully, Morse had been given a well heated room and Thursday hadn’t been too chilled.

He paused for a moment to stare at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked old, the lines of his face deeper than he remembered. His hair was a mess and he did his best to set it back into place. He had a night’s worth of beard growth and no razor to get rid of it. With a sigh, he splashed some cold water on his face and went back to Morse’s room.

Win was sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair. She had laid one of their household quilts across the bed and tucked it in around Morse. She was leaning forward, gently stroking his hair as he began to stir. Thursday quickly went to stand beside her, wary of a repeat of last night’s episode. Morse’s eyes fluttered open, bright blue and unfocused, and for a moment Fred was afraid he wasn’t truly seeing them. 

“Hello, dear,” Win said gently, continuing to stroke Morse’s curls. The lad’s eyes flickered up to her and a small frown lined his face. He murmured something, but it was too quiet and jumbled to be understood. Win just smiled at him.

“I know, dear,” she said. “You’re alright. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

Morse murmured something again and again Thursday couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. Evidently, the sedative was still in his system. Win was unfazed.

“Shh,” she said, her other hand coming up to rest on Morse’s chest. Then she started to quietly sing a lullaby she used to sing to the children when they were small. Morse’s eyes fell shut and he leaned into the hand gently stroking his hair. Within a minute he was asleep again. Fred smiled as Win finished the lullaby and leaned down to kiss the top of her head.

“Thanks, love,” he whispered.

She looked up at him and smiled. “There’s some sandwiches in the bag and a thermos of tea.” She looked about the room. “There must be another chair around somewhere.”

“I’ll go find one,” he said and held out a hand as Win looked as though she might protest. “No, no. I don’t mind. I’ve been sat in that thing all night. Do me some good to stretch my legs.” 

She let him go with the promise that he would eat his sandwich as soon as he found a chair. A nurse was more than happy to help him find one and soon he was sitting next to his wife watching Morse sleep. The morning crept by with little incident. Morse seemed to have finally settled into a deep and peaceful sleep. Just before noon Trewlove and Strange poked their heads through the door. Win got up and said she’d find them some tea.

“Difference a day makes,” Strange said, coming to stand at the end of Morse’s bed.

“Mr. Bright said his surgery went well?” said Trewlove. She walked over to the side of Morse’s bed and gently lifted the blankets to look at his cast. The lad didn’t stir.

“Yes,” said Thursday, joining Trewlove so he could also have a proper look at the cast. Apart from the small glimpse the night before he hadn’t had a chance to examine it, too afraid of disturbing Morse. But the boy was mercifully dead to the world at that moment, making up for the sleep he’d lost to nightmares. “It’ll take a while for it all to heal, but with a bit of work he should be fine.” Thursday looked from Trewlove to Strange, noting the tiredness etched into both their young faces. “You two get any sleep last night?”

Trewlove shook her head. “DI McNutt just sent us home. Said we’d done enough for now.”

“How about you?” Strange asked, giving him a meaningful look that told Thursday he looked just as tired as the DS and PC.

Thursday shook his head. “This one was restless,” he said, gesturing to Morse. “Went through a bit of a rough patch and had to be sedated again. That’s why he’s still asleep.”

“Not surprising,” Strange said. “I’ll be having nightmares after seeing Whitmore’s hideout.”

The three of them stood in silence, watching Morse sleep. Trewlove tucked the blankets back around his shoulders. Win reappeared carrying a tray which she set on the bedside table.

“Drink up you three,” she said, giving all of them a smile. “The nurses showed me where I could find more chairs, so I’ll be back in a tick.”

“Oh let me help you, Mrs. Thursday,” said Strange. 

Win waved him away. “It’s Win, dear. And heavens no, you poor things look dead on your feet. Stay here and drink your tea. I’ll manage.” And with that she left the room again. Trewlove passed the tea around as Win came and went and soon the four of them were sitting around Morse’s bed, the Thursdays on one side, Strange and Trewlove on the other. Win passed Strange and Trewlove a sandwich each and then forced another one on Fred. They talked quietly, avoiding the subject of the previous night. Instead, they focused on how they were going to keep Morse occupied during his recovery. A bored Morse was a difficult Morse and none of them particularly wanted to experience that. Throughout their conversation, they kept watch over the sleeping form between them until finally, he began to shift in his sleep.


End file.
